Hot Chocolate
by HunSher
Summary: Mycroft and his afternoon off. Chocolate and guilty pleasure.


Written for the following prompt ont he kink meme:

_"From the FML website: "Today, while sitting at a red light, I guiltily nibbled on a chocolate bar and looked around to make sure no one saw me cheating on my diet. A police car pulled up, I panicked, stepped on the gas, and ran the light. FML"_

Mycroft and Lestrade. Go."

* * *

**Hot Chocolate**

Well, what can I say. This is one of those days. Those days when I feel the need to get out of the office, to go home and change into much more comfortable clothes - today I chose a pair of light grey dogtooth check trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt (no tie, and top button loose). I'm ready. Ready to leave it all behind. This evening I am going to let my hair down and relax a bit.

And I don't need anyone's company. I've already sent a text message to Anthea to cancel all my appointments for the afternoon and asked her to take all my calls. Today, for the rest of the day, at least, I'm not working.

I take a final look at my reflection in the mirror – and make a mental note to thank Anthea for the advice on shirts that fit me. _Perfectly_, I can say. It was worth the time and pain. Not physical pain, of course, I would never do such thing. But those hours at the spa, the massages, the heat of the saunas are definitely showing their effects. The diet might play a bigger part here but it was -_is_- far less enjoyable than the 'beauty trips', as my dear little brother calls my visits to the health centre.

But today I am going to break the rules.

I head down to the kitchen to pack a few things: bottles of water, two apples, carrots – it may look ludicrous when a grown man like myself chews on carrots in public but my dietitian says they're good for the liver, the skin and also effective against arthritis.

As I think about all the horrible vegetables and fruits that I have eaten all day I catch myself moving towards the upper cupboard where the anti-diet food is, under seven seals. Well, I promised myself that this day is going to be _my day_. No more self-torture. So I grab a chocolate bar and place it neatly next to the carrots and apples.

Everything is ready and I feel like I'm ready, too. Ready to get in the car and leave the city behind. To drive to the closest green spot outside of London to enjoy the summer. To sit on a bench in a park where nobody knows me and no one will disturb the silence.

I grab my jacket and keys and head to the garage where my _baby_ waits for me. Not many people know I drive, let alone own a car. But she... she's beautiful. And fits me perfectly. My _silver 1964 Aston Martin DB5_. Sherlock -of course, he knows about it- says it makes me look like an MI6 agent even more. Like 007. But I have to admit that the film makers did a splendid job when they chose this car to be James Bond's.

As I turn the key she starts humming, purring. The leather seats cuddle me perfectly and the engine gives a little jarring feeling. I can feel the tension leaving my body. This is what I need now. This car, on the road, breeze licking my hand as I put my arm out on the door while I speed along those country lanes.

But first I have to get out of London. The traffic is a nightmare at this time of the day. Red lights and traffic jams everywhere. Thank God I have a radio built in the dashboard so I can listen to some music.

I surf radio stations as the line of cars slowly crawls forward. The music is horrible these days. What happened to the times when Motown, blues and soul were popular? Not... this Gaga lady.

God, the cars are moving like snails. I take a look at my wristwatch. It took me 45 minutes to reach the suburbs. The traffic is back to normal now, but then again, I am waiting for a green light. I start to get tired of it. I look around in the car and the chocolate bar winks at me from the pack on the seat next to me.

Yes, I need some comfort right now. I slowly start to unwrap the package. The sound of it always makes me smile. I feel like a child again. When I pilfered some biscuits from the kitchen and Mummy caught me. She never said anything, she just took the box from my hands and put it back in the cupboard. I always felt humiliated. It was worse than listening to her ordering me to put it away. But now... Now there's no one to judge me. Nobody to remind me that eating chocolate is the biggest crime against one's diet.

I chip a small part and take it into my mouth. I don't want to chew on it, no, first I want to _feel_ it melting on my tongue. It's so thick and velvet like. As the taste reaches my taste buds I let out a huge sigh.

_Relief_. How long have I been deprived of this? I know it's a sin, but God help me, if eating chocolate means going to hell I'm willing to do so.

The small chip vanishes with one swallow but I need to taste it again so I bite a bigger part this time.

The summer breeze comes through the window and it feels warm against my face. My head falls back on the back-rest and the sound of the traffic nulls. I close my eyes and dreamily bring the bar to my mouth to take another bite.

That's when I hear the distant sound of a motorcycle. I peek at the vehicle and my hand –chocolate bar still in it– stops mid-air.

_Lestrade_.

Gregory Lestrade is sitting on that motorcycle.

And he's in casual clothes. Not his regular dark suit, no. Khaki coat, light brown trousers and dark blue shirt peeping out from the loose jacket. Even with his helmet on his head, I can see him smiling.

He is laughing. _Laughing at me_.

I feel horrified. This should have _never_ happened. No. It's one thing meeting the man, who your little brother works for, in those clothes and on that bike (all of it is _sexy, _sod it). But he knows I'm on a diet – Sherlock never forgets to mention it when I'm around on a crime scene. He _knows_, and now he saw me eating that chocolate.

No one should know that occasionally I break the rules of my diet. This makes me angry and confused. I'm angry with myself for being so weak, eating chocolate _in this bloody car_! No, no, _I love her_, no, there's no point being angry at her. Not her fault, no.

It's me. Eating chocolate in public when you're on diet? How have I thought I could get away with it? I just revealed a weakness and this could be used against me. No, what am I saying? It's _Greg_. Lestrade. He would never tease me about it. I _hope_ so. I hope Sherlock's manners haven't rubbed off on him.

At this moment I realize my hand is still gripping the bar. I look at it and almost throw it out the window on the passenger's side. My hand is sticky from the melted chocolate. I'm going to stain the leather on the steering wheel. But I don't care now.

I have to _get away_. Get away from this attractive (_and clever and funny and considerate and... STOP IT!_) man, whose feet are on the ground now, looking at me with pure delight.

I turn the ignition key and try to put the car in gear. I know my movements are hasty but I want to leave him and his bike behind.

The car starts. _Finally!_ I step on the gas and take the corner to get out of his sight. _Damn, I ran the light_. And he's a police officer. Thank God he's not a police constable. There should be no problem. _I hope_. _Again_. This man is unpredictable. And it's _intriguing_...

* * *

DI. Greg Lestrade saw the Aston Martin from quite far away. That's a car no one can easily pass by. He was proud of his 2010 Triumph Bonneville but it was no comparison to an Aston Martin.

He pulled up to the car and looked at it, observantly. And his eyes widened even more when he saw the driver.

_Mycroft Holmes_.

Who was eating a bar of chocolate.

_Now that's interesting_, he thought and continued staring at the other man.

He was eating that bar with so much _passion_, Lestrade couldn't help but swallow hard at the sight. He looked _tempting_in casual clothes and with his head on the back-rest and eyes closed.

And that was the moment he opened them and looked at Greg.

What Greg saw in them made him smile. Like a little boy caught in the cupboard eating cookies. Guilt, puzzlement and anger.

It took all of his strength not to laugh out loud when Mycroft threw the chocolate away and started fiddling with the key. It took him quite a few moments to start the car and put it in gear. He sped off and Greg looked up at the light. It was still red.

He shook his head, huffed out a little laugh and waited for the green light.

* * *

Beta'd by my friend, Ed.


End file.
